Theo always poked the sorest parts of my soul. The parts of me I didn’t want to acknowledge. My mother didn’t love me, or, worse, no one can love me. He made me look at those parts and question why the wound existed and who had put it there. It was cruel and horrible, but the thing is, if you didn’t acknowledge a wound, you can’t heal. It sits there and gets infected. It grows and it takes over. A wound on your soul changes who you are. If you didn’t love yourself first, you can’t love anyone.
